Perzo Vūjita (Kissed by Fire)
by reina108
Summary: Arranged marriage AU set in the Game of Thrones universe where she is Lady Regina of House Martell and he is Ser Robin from House Lannister. (Unrelated to the actual plot line in G.O.T.)
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Zūgagon daor

* * *

A.N: I own nothing but my mistakes.

There is a very high possibility that I have mucked something up within the customs of the whole Game of Thrones universe, but bear with me here. Or I'll just make the claim of artistic licence.  
I know that the wait for this fic has been pretty long and I apologize for that. School gets in the way of writing and sucks me dry of any creative inspiration at times.

The title is High Valyrian, meaning "kissed by fire."

Chapter title means, "Do not be afraid."

* * *

"You do not wish to be married," he says, carefully, the statement formed as a question, only in fear that he might offend her in some way.

A panic-stricken look washes over her face, for only a moment, before she masks whatever emotion comes to surface. She forces a smile onto her lips, almost coy in nature, and she turns her face away from him as they continue walking along the path. "What makes you think that?"

Robin turns to her and smiles teasingly, albeit honest. "Your eyes, my lady. They're very expressive."

He hears the hitch in Regina's breath and waits for a hurried rebuke or a string of insults, but none come.

"Is that so?" she asks instead, her voice meant to be taunting, yet it only falls flat due to the quiet timber of her voice. Robin nods, eyes taking in the image of her profile as she purses her lips and tucks her chin to her chest, her eyes trained to the ground.

"I did not wish to marry either," he admits, causing Regina's gaze to snap up to him, eyes wide. "If it were up to me, I'd wait a few more years before I'd take a wife — preferably one of my own choosing —but alas, we are but pawns in an alliance our families wish to form." He catches her eye then, something akin to a bright sense of wonder in her gaze, but even so, she does not speak. Robin wonders if she's ever spoken up about what she wanted for herself. He knows that he gets away with a lot, his parents being very generous and lenient with him, but he hopes that even Regina found some form of happiness in her days, despite knowing what a strict mother she had. His eyes drift to Blackwater in thought. It still baffles him to this day how a commoner, from the Reach, such as Cora had become the one to rule with an Iron Fist in their household, compared to the youngest Prince of Dorne. She may have been a commoner, but there is nothing about Regina's mother that is common, in any way whatsoever. Other than her blood, the woman is rather regal in every sense of the word. He's heard quite shocking tales of the older woman about the way she went about raising Regina. Thankfully, her daughter doesn't seem too miserable— if only soft-spoken.

He looks away from the Bay then, his gaze landing on her face. She looks healthy, glowing… Most definitely one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen. "I will admit, I'm not all that disappointed to be betrothed to you, despite my previous wishes, my lady." He sees her cheeks pinking and he knows he's said the right thing.

"Why's that?" she asks, peering up at him from beneath her dark lashes.

"You certainly are enchanting," he compliments, holding out his arm for her to take. Her blush deepens but she slips her hand into the crook of his arm with an air of nonchalance, her eyes trained forward.

* * *

She seems to look at him with a new found respect now, which lights a sort of fire in Robin's heart that scorches through the very bones of him. Whenever her gaze falls on him and their eyes meet, his heart leaps in his chest and he smiles at her. In almost every instance, she looks away, but he can spot the beginnings of a smile on her lips and a tinge of pink in her cheeks and he can't help but be pleased with her reaction.

Her mother watches them keenly, seemingly scrutinizing every one of her daughter's reactions, and though he can tell that she's satisfied in his interest in Regina, he catches the looks she shoots her, reminding her not to behave like a giggling child. But what Lady Cora doesn't seem to realize is that he is just as observant, if not more, and he catches the way Regina's genuine smile drops when she catches the reprimanding look on her mother's face, into something more reserved and false; the way that she sets her shoulders, and corrects her posture— because even if her mother wishes to compare her to a brood mare or some sort of bargaining chip to settle the lingering animosity between the Lannisters and Martells, she is still a child, with her rosy cheeks, pink lips, and excitement he can see bubbling under her cool exterior whenever she spots him across the large expanse of the halls.

Robin decides then to try and treat her with the delicacy of a flower, one of the many exotic ones he'd seen painted in portrays from Sunspear, though he knows she captures his attention far more than a picture ever could.

* * *

Regina grows ill after a fortnight in King's Landing, her chest rattling with every breath she takes. Though, he cannot deny, that even with her hair matted and her eye's lacking the liveliness he's become accustomed to, she's breathtakingly beautiful.

"My mother will not be impressed if she catches you in my bedchambers without supervision," she says as he slips through the door, closing it behind him without making a sound. The room is stuffy and smells of herbs and ointments, her curtains drawn to disallow much natural light from entering, a small candle on her bedside table the only thing he can use to see in the dimly lit room.

"In that case," he says, sitting down on the stool next to her bed, "we'll have to make sure she doesn't catch me." He smiles at the way her eyes roll and her lips quirk. He's relieved to see that she isn't frightened by his presence. In truth, he hadn't even thought of what her reaction to his visit might have been. He'd only wished to see her after he'd heard that she'd succumbed to a case of pneumonia.

"What brings you to my quarters, Lannister?" she asks, shaking him from his thoughts. Her lips are pursed, eyes narrowed— studying him, no doubt, but there's a sense of mirth there that disarms him.

"I craved only to be in your presence, my lady." And though his words are honest, Regina lets out a short laugh that immediately turns into a cough. Despite the stack of pillows behind her back, keeping her relatively upright, Robin moves to sit on her bed, and settles her back against his chest, at the sight of her exertion. He feels her gasping for breath, her body warm with fever. Even having her here like this, sick and clothed, makes his heart thrum against his ribs. Her head settles against his shoulder before she relaxes against him, her tense muscles giving in to the comfort he's providing.

"I find that difficult to believe," she says after her breathing has relatively evened out. Robin has to think for a moment before he realizes she's referring to his comment from minutes ago. It wounds him to think that she still has doubts about him and he draws on the skin of her hand in contemplation. He really shouldn't be astounded by her response, considering nothing in the Crownlands is kept very discreet, his dalliances included. The idea of her finding out about just how many times he has visited a brothel has him wincing. He can't imagine her being very much like many of the other Dornish women he's encountered in the past— Cora doesn't seem like a woman that would encourage her daughter to be very fluid with her sexuality, which only shows him how much influence the woman has on her family.

"But do you?" he finds himself asking, as his hand covers hers on the mattress, his fingers slipping between her own, thin digits.

"Believe you?" she asks for clarification, and he nods behind her, his chin brushing against her temple. She doesn't respond for a while and he thinks that she's fallen asleep, but then he feels her take a deep breath, before letting it out slowly. "I do." And it's barely a whisper, but he hears it anyway and he's smiling, the urge to wrap his arms around her waist and embrace her growing tenfold but he doesn't. He keeps his hands by their sides, one on her hand and the other clutching the fabric beneath him.

"Would you like to see the sunrise?" he asks after several minutes of silence. He is aware that he should allow her to rest and let her be, but he's greedy with her company, always reluctant to leave her side.

"I can't imagine it being any different from the sunrise in Sunspear," she comments, and her words are drawn together like she had been on the edge of sleep. He regrets his self-indulgence then, guilt rising up in his throat.

And yet— "Perhaps you could take a look and tell me," he says carefully, his voice rising in question.

Regina huffs weakly, and he thinks she's going to send him off and he's about to resign and leave her to rest, but then she sighs and speaks before he can say anything else. "Alright."

"A bit of fresh air will do you good," he says, slipping from behind her, gently, to not jostle her. He pulls the curtains open, and unlocks the balcony door, opening it. Looking back at her, he sees her squint at the fast approaching dawn light. He slips an arm behind her back and beneath her knees, lifting her off the bed, blankets and all, and brings her out on the balcony, before settling on a chair, and placing her in his lap.

He sees the slow rising of the sun and he wishes he could see colours play out on her features, imagines the light playing across her dark eyes.

* * *

"I swear it on all the Gods," Robin insists and Regina laughs, the sound tinkling and light, and he cannot seem to tear his eyes away from how brilliant she looks when she's actually enjoying herself. This is why he doesn't feel guilt for stealing her away from the rest of the lot.

She shakes her head, eyes rolling before she releases another laugh. "That doesn't make me think you any less of a trickster."

He lets out a scoff before putting his hand over his heart in jest. "Do you think me a Godless man?"

Regina looks at him, her eyes narrowing in thought and then speaks. "You do not seem to be one who would worship anything he cannot set his eyes on… or rather, have some sort of proof of it's existence."

Robin nods with an admitted shrug, dropping his comical act, though his smile remains. "You are very perceptive, my princess."

They continue their stroll through the gardens until he spots the flush on her cheeks. From the pinch of her brows and the fire in her eyes, he can tell it's not of the good kind so he slows his walk, bringing them to a stop.

"Have I said something to upset you?"

"Just because I am to be your wife, it does not mean that I am yours," she almost snarls, setting her jaw. Robin's lips pull into a smile, finding amusement in her ardor. She seems to come to a sort of conclusion that perhaps she's misstepped and her gaze falls away from his eyes, looking to the far wall of hedges that surround them. "Forgive me," she says almost reluctantly after a moment of contemplation, but Robin only shakes his head in response.

"Becoming my wife won't make you any less of a person, Regina," he says, his voice hushed as he steps closer to her and her eyes snap back up to his face. He reaches out slowly, giving her enough time to step away from him if she so wishes. Her eyes flint down to his hand, but she does not react, so he takes it as consent. "You would only be mine, as much as I would, in turn, be yours," he says gently, placing a hand on her waist. He can touch her skin here, where the cut of her Dornish gown leaves her exposed to him, and he feels her flesh prickle beneath his fingers.

"You're a liar, Lannister," she whispers, and he's so close now, he can see how the black of her eyes grow. "Just as the rest of your blood."

He smiles and sees her eyes drop to his lips. "Perhaps. But on my honour as your husband—"

"Future husband."

"Future husband," he corrects with a smirk, as he moves even closer to her. He knows that it is unwise to behave so frivolously in public; that anyone could walk into the garden at any moment and spot them— and he's sure Regina knows this as well. "I promise never to lie to you."

Regina remains quiet and when the seconds slip away and she still has no sharp retort on her tongue, his smirk grows. The sound of footsteps behind the tall hedges makes him think of her virtue and how this would look unfavourable on her dignity, rather than his, so he presses his lips to her cheek and against the corner of her mouth —her only response a sharp intake of breath— before pulling away and offering her his arm.

* * *

Regina is warm and light, like the summer sun rising early in the morning. She's receptive to his easy touches now, his hand on her hip, her elbow, pulling her closer— always closer. She smells like the richest of chocolates with a spice of cinnamon and he can't help but wonder what her skin tastes like.

It's simple to spend time with her— despite how his heart beats rapidly when he meets her gaze and he catches the way her eyes fall to his lips— and he finds himself spending most of his free time with her, time when he isn't required to train for combat, or being educated on the importance of counselling, just for the possibility that perhaps someday he will become the Lord Commander, just as his father.

Regina's flesh prickles beneath his touch, her breath hitching in her throat as he closes the distance between them. "Robin?" she asks, her voice soft, dark eyes questioning, but she doesn't look frightened by his advance and for that he is grateful. It wouldn't do to scare her off, not when he craves her so.

They'd been walking quietly down the corridor, having just left the dining hall, where he'd offered his arm and requested to bring her back to her quarters, before pulling her into a darkened crook, no doubt a passageway for her handmaidens, when he couldn't stand the polite words and her tentative touch on his arm— because where he is free with the contact he offers her, she is more hesitant— not when their gazes are heated and their touches threaten to burn.

"Have I told you how much I look forward to being married to you?" he asks, breath ghosting over her lips and he feels her shudder and wonders if it's from the cold stone behind her back or the warmth of his body against hers. He hopes it's the latter— for all the reasons why his own blood is rush in his veins.

"Why's that?" she whispers, her head falling back against the stone, eyes half lidded. His eyes drop to her lips, stained with some sort of maquillage to make them appear darker than the soft pink of her mouth. He thinks it might be some form of sorcery, that tempts him, draws him in, and he has to press his hands, palms flat, against the wall to resist the urge to touch her and keep touching her until she's a squirming, panting mess in his arms.

Robin doesn't speak but she seems to read his thoughts and he can see, from the torchlight just above as her cheeks darken. He knows it's foolish to do so but he leans further into her, skimming his nose along her cheek bone, her lips a mere fraction from his.

"I've never wanted a woman more than I want you," he says, his voice hushed as though just admitting this aloud would somehow taint their inevitable union. She lets out a sigh of a moan, the sound of it needy, and the pliancy of her body lets him know that if he were to close the gap between their mouths, diminish that chasm, that she wouldn't object. If anyone were to know of this, this temporary lapse of insanity, she would be regarded with disappointment, her reputation dirtied. And he thinks of how unfair that is. How his actions would look badly upon her when she is always so well behaved.

"Have you ever wanted a woman that you couldn't have?" Her voice, despite the breathless quality of it, is teasing and he laughs, his forehead falling to hers, because no, and he tells her so.

He's loved before, when he was much younger and barely a man, and she'd only been a scullery maid. They both knew, deep down, that a union between them would be impossible, but they had hoped, and hoped, and hoped in secret, until she caught the eye of a soldier from the Iron Islands and her parents hastily agreed to a marriage and she'd accused him of being too cowardly to ask his father. She'd been right. But he'd known that their hope had been fruitless. His knowledge had only been confirmed years down the road when his father told him he'd arranged for him to marry a beautiful bride from Dorne. Robin hadn't believed her to be beautiful until he actually laid his eyes on her.

Yet, here that girl is in front of him, his Lady from Dorne, and he thanks The Seven for giving her to him because his heart burns with a fire for her that he hasn't ever known before.

Robin pulls back, adds distance between them for fear of her feeling him grow long and hard against her thigh. Yet, when he finally escorts Regina to her chambers, the small smirk on her lips makes him think she'd already known.

* * *

Robin visits the brothel the next morning with little persuasion from his companions (he needs some form of release and he hasn't visited the establishment since Regina's arrival), and choses the brunette with the honey brown eyes. He's had her before, knows her to be quite talented with her tongue, but when she's between his legs, his cock in her mouth, he finds her exaggerated moans nothing but irritating. Her breasts, that he'd once found phenomenal, are suddenly too large for his taste and he has her turn and asks her to quiet when he can't reach his peak. Even then, the tone of her skin is all wrong and he gives up on trying to bring his fantasy to life, getting the girl off before he grunts out his release with dissatisfaction. He doesn't let it show though. The last thing he wants is for this guiltless whore to pay the price of something she hadn't done.

* * *

The next time Robin sees his Dornish bride-to-be, she sends him a withering glare and turns on her heal, walking back the way she came, head held high and shoulders set.

* * *

He finds out that week that she has a talent for avoiding people she doesn't wish to see.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: ... se avy ōdrikosy lī hīghari morghūlilzi.

* * *

A/N: A note, just to address a few points that were brought up:  
Regina is pretty young (17 y.o.), like most women are in G.O.T. when they get married off. For example, Daenerys was 15, I believe. (I'm aware that it's awful, so I won't go that far. Even though I'm pretty sure Regina was 17-18 anyway when she was forced to marry Leopold in cannon.) Robin is in his mid twenties, still pretty young (for a man), and a bit of a scoundrel, as we can see. There are loads of double standards to play with in this trope. Especially since men visiting brothels is not a very big deal, or something that they're necessarily looked down upon, in many backgrounds. It appears to be more shameful if you actually conceive a bastard child (this is mostly my interpretation) though they know it's not something they would generally boast about. (What's there to boast about when you have to pay for sex, really?) In King's Landing, they just seem to twitter about. (Not the social media site). However, in Dorne (where Regina's from), sleeping with a number of people is quite common for someone of Robin's status, and sexuality is viewed as something very open and free.  
Cora raised Regina a lot differently than every one that we've seen in the Martell household because Cora's not originally from there. So with that come different customs which she's passed down to Regina. If anything, Cora thinks that sleeping with whores is beneath him, but Regina obviously takes it more personally.

Chapter title is High Valyrian, meaning "... and those who would harm you will die screaming."

* * *

When he can't for the life of him piece together her anger towards him, he sneaks into her bedchambers once more, though this time, it is well past sundown and he suspects her to be asleep. His beliefs are confirmed when he sees her beneath the heavy duvet, her chest rising slowly with every breath she takes, eyes closed.

Robin tells himself that he is content with watching her, just being in her presence (it had been akin to torture when he hadn't spoken to her for so long, and he knows exactly what _that_ particular endeavour is like) until she mumbles in her sleep, turning her head to the side and exposing the long column of her neck. He pictures kissing her there, nipping with his teeth and soothing with his tongue and marking her as his. Her tiny moan echoes in his mind, the moan she'd let slip past her tightly controlled manner when he'd expressed his want. (He doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget it.) He wants to hear it again now, and imagines how that moan would change pitch and grow louder when he would slip between her thighs and lap at—

"Robin?" Her voice shakes him from his thoughts and he's glad for the darkness of the room for he feels his skin flush from how far he'd gone in his mind. He won't deny how mad she drives him. "What are you doing here?" She's sitting up now, staring at him.

"I wanted to see you," he says, voice soft with honesty.

"And _of course_ you always get what you want. Why should my intension of what _I_ want get in your way?" she snaps and it makes him focus his eyes on her expression, taking in her furrowed brows and pinched lips. But it's her glare that is the most telling.

"What's this about?" he asks, because he's genuinely perplexed by her hostility.

"_This_— your presence in my bedchambers inappropriate."

"You didn't complain the last time."

"You took advantage of my illness," she presses, lips pinched. He tilts his head forward, lifting a brow, and she looks away because they both know that to be a lie.

"Regina," he whispers, and it's just short of exasperation, watching as she pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her legs.

It takes her a few moments, moments where all he can hear is her hesitant breaths as she searches for the words to tell him. "You told me… that you wanted me," she says finally, still refusing to meet his gaze. He shakes his head, confused.

"I did say that. I wasn't aware that you were offended—"

"I thought that meant _just_ me."

_Oh._

"Regina…"

"I know… Please, don't speak. I know it's… foolish and naïve to think that you wouldn't…" she struggles, her discomfort as clear as day, and he's reminded with a startling intensity how young she really is. There's only handful of years separating them in difference but it seems like so much more when she's only on the cusp of becoming a woman.

"I didn't know…" he says quietly, when he feels that she won't continue. "Didn't think you'd hear about it either," he adds, because if she's being completely honest then so should he. Nevertheless, he isn't surprised; there are always whispers around the kingdom, tracking the doings of everyone with a considerable rank. She shoots him another glare, making him smile sheepishly and he accepts it because she's finally looking at him again with those eyes that look pitch black now in the darkness. After a moment of quiet, he sits down next to her, pulling her to him as he rests back against the headboard.

He wonders how she would react if he told her the reason he had gone to the brothel in the first place, what she would do if she knew that he'd tried in vain to bring his fantasy of her to life, but just as soon as the thought enters his mind, he pushes it away. It's pointless to make excuses— which is surely what she'd make of his explanation, and he's apprehensive of enraging her. What's done is done.

"Is that what you wish?" he asks after she's settled against him, relaxed and warm partially atop him. She lifts her head from his shoulder, her expression slightly bewildered as looks up at him. "For me to abstain from visiting the brothel?" he clarifies and she drops her head back down.

"_All_ brothels," she says after a beat, her voice commanding, and he laughs. He thinks she would make an even better queen one day than the one that currently occupies the Iron Throne.

"Alright."

* * *

A ball is held for the Queen's name day, the grandest hall is filled with nobility from near and far, the walls decorated in scarlet and gold. There are banquets being served with some of the most exotic dishes Robin has heard of and, likewise, tasted. He is quite taken with a platter of some sort of smoked fish, topped with poached eggs and a savoury sauce, when he hears the distinct click of her heels just next to him. He raises his eyes, gaze catching on the deep colours of red, a corset, exaggerating a slim waist, and they travel all the way up her slender neck, to full lips and dark brown eyes.

"Regina…" It's with a gasp that he says her name, almost leaping from his seat to offer the one next to him. It is against tradition for a pair to sit beside one another during meals and he's surprised that she is forgoing such a rule. Although when he looks around, her mother seems to be no where in sight, and he gets the answer to his unspoken question.

"Good evening," she offers with a private smile, sitting down in the seat that he has pulled out. There's an ornate gold necklace resting against her chest, and it catches the light as she moves, drawing his gaze down to the tops of her breasts, amplified by the corset, his mouth watering at the sight, food immediately forgotten. Though her movements seem to be a bit stifled by the tight fit of the Western dress, she is mesmerizing in the colours of his house. The colours bring out the deeper tones of her skin, her dark hair braided and pinned up on the top of her head, putting her elegant shoulders on display. He thinks her akin to a temptress; dangerous, delicious.

"You look radiant, my Lady," he says, taking her hand and laying a kiss on the back of it.

"Thank you, Ser. You are quite dashing yourself," she responds and he takes note of the way her eyes sweep over his frame. He catches the hungry look in her dark orbs when they sweep back up and meet his own blue ones. He imagines she's seeing something of a similar nature in his.

Regina breaks him out of his lust filled daze when she reaches over and plucks a grape from his plate, slipping it past those painted lips, and the act is so indelicate that it has him grinning immediately.

He watches her then, as attentive as ever as she speaks of her day, the smile never leaving her face. He has never seen her behave so freely, and it only serves to soften him, content to just be in her presence, for she is as captivating as the burning sun that lies in the heavens. Robin spots her father a few paces away, though he never sees a look of admonishment on the older man's face— just a small smile whenever his head turns from whomever he's speaking with to seek his daughter out in the sea of different shades of red. It's usually when her laughter rings out, full and magnificent, that Enrique looks over, and Robin has a hard time tearing his gaze from her sparkling eyes and reddened cheeks to be as observant as he usually is.

Robin thinks that perhaps they've had too much wine when he requests a dance, but he wishes to hold her, to touch her freely, and as undignified as they had already behaved at the table, he is more than willing to take any of the attention she will offer him. To his delight, the guests around them do not seem to notice their puerile behaviour, too enamoured in their own conversations to pay them much attention— but even then, he knows better, for there is always someone with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue. He brings her to the middle of the ballroom, amidst all the other dancers, delicately taking her hand and laying the other on her waist. For once, _she_ is the one that steps forward, removing nearly all of the space between them, with a lecherous grin and he wonders for a moment if she is as innocent as she has lead him to believe. His fingers skate across the material of the dress, and as beautiful as it is, he finds himself missing her usual attire, the Dornish dresses that would allow his touch to land on her bare skin.

* * *

Regina's panting, a thin sheen of perspiration causing the skin of her chest to glisten, and the yearning he feels for her almost makes his resolve crumble. They round another corner, nearly causing one of castle servants to topple over from fright, and Regina lets out a peel of laughter, her eyes dancing in the light offered by the torches. They are close to her chambers now, though they had taken a rather unconventional path, through servants quarters and darkened hallways, constantly detouring from their intended destination— if only to lengthen the time spent in each others' presence (or so Robin hopes). It's late, the banquet having ended hours ago, though here she is, crooking her finger at him while she walks backwards. He notes, with a wide grin, that she is moving in the opposite direction of where she _should _be headed.

"My lady, I believe that you're purposely getting us lost," he says when they reach the gardens, the wine lowering his reservations enough for him to easily pull her closer. He knows he's right, only because he remembers how she'd complained to him of the way her mother had her learn the castle grounds within the first week that they'd arrived to King's Landing, and though she doesn't complain often, he knows of the many pains she is forced to endure, just from the tales from other women, and her rather loquacious handmaiden. Regina hums, an impish expression on her face before she starts to giggle.

It's with a wide smile that she says, "Well, _I_ believe that if you had _any_ reservations about that, you would have lead me back to my quarters a _long_ time ago, Ser Robin." And then her hands are flat against his chest, traveling upwards to wrap her arms around his neck, bringing her supple body flush against his.

"You overestimate my chivalry," he says, his voice quiet, for her lips are only a fraction away from his own and it's taking all of his restraint not to do anything brash.

"Would you return me to my chambers if I asked?" she whispers back, her eyes hooded, flickering from his lips back up to meet his gaze.

"I will do whatever it is you ask of me, my Lady."

She seems to contemplate something then, a look of curiosity crossing her features before she comes to a conclusion and her face settles into another one of her mischievous expressions. He has to wonder then what she was like as a small child and thinks that if the both of them would have grown side-by-side, they would have caused their caretakers utter grief.

"Kiss me, Lannister." And he has to blink several times, processing her words, to make sure he hadn't misheard her in his lust-addled mind. He steps backwards then, having enough sense to be more discreet about what he is about to do, bringing them underneath the overhang of the balcony above, and shielding them in utter darkness. He promised her, he thinks as his head dips, forehead resting against hers and eyes closing on their own accord. He had promised to do what ever she'd asked, and even if he hadn't, he wants to kiss her— wants _her_— and he'll take whatever she'll give to him and hopes that she will let him return the favour.

He wants to be slow and tender, and at first, he is. His lips press against hers, and he takes his time, letting her grow accustomed to his kisses. Even so, it doesn't take very long before her hand is cupping the back of his neck and her lips are parting just enough for him to slip his tongue inside her mouth. She gasps at that, and he opens his eyes to see hers fluttering just before she's giving back as good as she gets, flicking her own tongue across the roof of his mouth, a move that causes his knees to almost buckle beneath his weight. There is absolutely no way that she's never done this before, he realizes with a start, and his hands grip her waist possessively, spinning them around and pressing her into the stone wall that had previously been behind him. She groans, her fingers tangling in his hair and he breaks the kiss for a lungful of air before he's swooping back in, leaving a trail of wet kisses down the elegant column of her throat, where he can taste the salt of her skin and whatever fragrant oils she has slathered onto herself. He wants to mark her (he's had this thought too often as of late), pull her skin into his mouth and leave a big purple bruise to prove that she is his and only his. In spite of what he wants, he knows better then to do something so foolish, so he continues his decent, teeth lightly nipping at the tops of her breasts. One of his hands stray from its position on her waist, lower until he has a grip on her thigh and soon he is pulling at her skirts, hitching her leg up, around his hip and Regina is moaning at the press of him between her legs. When he looks up to see her lips parted, eyes closed, with her head lolling to the side, he almost drops to his knees to grovel at her feet because she is _beautiful_ and he yearns to know exactly what she looks like when she's on the precipice of falling. He craves to see her wild: begging and screaming and — Gods, she is driving him absolutely mad with want.

"Regina," he huffs against her skin, resting his head against her shoulder in an attempt to calm his arousal.

"Again," she says to him. "Kiss me again."

It is inevitable that their lips meet for a second time. There in no way that Robin can deny her. He is the moth and she is the flame. The only problem with that is the unavoidable situation where he is bound to get burnt.

* * *

Robin doesn't see her the next day, nor the day after that, or for many subsequent days for that matter. Finally, after eight days of her noticeable absence, he spots her in the gardens where he had kissed her the evening of the ball. He beams, lips automatically pulling into a grin at the sight of her but he doesn't receive the same response, only a tight-lipped smile. When he settles down next to her on the bench, brows pinched in worry, she lets out a small sigh.

"I do not think we should spend so much time in each others company anymore—" she stops him before he can protest, lifting a hand, "at least, not until the wedding."

"Why?" he asks then, truly baffled.

"It is what I want," she says, her voice devoid of any emotion. He frowns, studying her. He wants to keep his promise, to heed to her requests, but he can't help but feel as though this isn't what she, herself, wants.

"Did I do something wrong?" But he knows he has. He has made a great deal of mistakes.

"No, Rob— my Lord," she dips her head, and that's when he notices the way she's wringing her hands in her lap, fingers coasting over the bruises on her wrist. Grasps at her hand, careful to avoid the marks on her skin, and though they are barely visible now, he knows what a bruise looks like.

"Did someone hurt you?" he whispers passionately, rage bubbling up in his gut. Regina flinches, the expression on her face fearful as she tears her hand out of his hold.

"No! Please, Robin. Just— I think we've been spending far too much time with each other then is appropriate. I will not let my reputation be tarnished because you can't keep your paws to yourself." Though she is practically snarling at him, there are tears threatening to spill over in her eyes. They both know he sees those treacherous tears, (he has always been rather perceptive when it came to her,) which is quite possibly the only reason she stands abruptly and leaves him with a, "good evening," her voice thick with emotion.

He vows to himself, that whomever dares to touch her with the intent to harm, will be torn apart, limb from limb.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Kessa

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. Life got in the way. Thank you to everyone who still stuck with me on this project and encouraged me. I appreciate all your support!

Chapter title means "yes" in High Valyrian.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

She doesn't join him for meals any longer, and Robin feels the disappointment every time his eyes sweep the room, failing to spot her when he enters the dining hall. He catches himself looking up with questing eyes, every few minutes, hoping she will reappear and he can't stop thinking about what caused her to close herself off, replaying the events in the garden within his mind, and ends up doubting every word, every touch— despite how the rational side of him knows that he might not be the cause of her change in demeanour towards him. Even after a week of her absence, he continues hoping and wondering, intolerant of the turn of events (regardless of the fact that he's been known to be very passive about things in the past, yet, he can't be now, not when it matters).

She finally graces everyone with her presence, after a fortnight, but she sits on the other end of the table, surrounded by Martells, and the Tyrell girl, nowhere near enough for him to even attempt to speak to her without having to raise his voice. The only semblance of attention he gets from her, initially, is a polite smile and a nod when she settles, and it has him shifting, uncomfortable, in his chair, dissatisfied with the acknowledgement. Even so, he tries to catch her eye, and fails— though he can see that she is aware of his gaze, her movements tight and controlled, as she laughs lightly at something Belle says. It's forced, her laugh, and it twists his gut that she is so uneasy in his presence. He cannot fathom what it is that they have done wrong— that _he_ has done wrong. Perhaps he'd pushed her too far, frightened her with the intensity of his lust for her, completely transparent. If it's a gentleman she wants, that's what he'll give her, if only she'll give him more than just the acknowledgment of his presence. She doesn't owe it to him, of course, not until she's his wife, and even then he knows he would never be able to do anything against her wishes, but he craves to see her smile— an honest, happy smile, such as the one she had directed at him when his fingers had brushed against her skin beneath her ribs and she'd laughed uncontrollably, beaming up at him in the darkness of the garden, not the one she's painted onto her face like the one she's directing at the girl beside her. He remembers how she had looked that night, before he'd returned her to her chambers, after he had thoroughly devoured every inch of her mouth— it's not as though he can forget— how her hair had come undone from the elaborate bun on top of her head due to his questing fingers, skimming through her soft tresses, clutching and pulling and _feeling_.

She looks at him now, when she stands to leave, and he can tell it's unintentionally with how her eyes drop immediately, brows knitting in frustration. Enough of this, he thinks, as he watches her rise fully, and leave for wherever it is that she is planning to do, and he stands as well, not soon after, to follow her. The Tyrell girl catches his eye and she offers him a small, knowing smile. As much as he likes the lass, he doesn't think to return it, too focused on his current task of stealing his bride away.

It's not quite dark, so he has to be careful, the sun only just setting in the West, casting shadows on the veranda. His footsteps are light, and he remains a few paces behind her. She is only with a handmaiden now, one he's never seen before, and he wonders if she is an informant. He wouldn't put it past Lady Cora to spy on her own daughter.

Robin freezes when he sees her stop ahead of him, slipping into a darkened corridor before she can catch him and he curses himself for how ridiculously he is behaving. He's a Lannister for gods sake.

"Go on ahead. I'd prefer to spend some time on my own in the gardens," he hears her say, and smiles when her handmaiden doesn't protest. The girl only responds with a _"yes, my lady,"_ and she is gone, her soft footsteps echoing through the hall and he knows she cannot be a spy, for she would have been more insistent about remaining by her side. Before he can step back out into the main corridor, he is greeted with the sight of Regina's figure rounding the corner, her lips pulled into a tight, severe line. "Why are you following me?" she asks, her voice low and threatening, and he noticeably flinches, his expression sheepish, thanks to the irritation he can hear in her voice (in addition to the knowledge that he'd been acting absurd). "Are you too obtuse for you to completely disregard my simple request in such a way that you have to resort to sneaking about like a school boy?"

"I wished to see you," he whispers, his brows pulling together pleadingly. She softens visibly, though when he tries to reach out for her, she steps away from him.

"And now you have," she sighs, "Good day, my Lord."

"My lady, wait—" He catches her just before she steps back out into the hallway, aglow with the warm light of the setting sun, and the only thing he spots, when she turns back to him, is the restraint in her dark eyes. Not even a moment later, he's pulling her close before he can even think about what he is doing, before she can even react herself, and pressing his lips against hers. She doesn't respond, her lips motionless beneath his own and he pulls away, frowning at the sight of her tortured expression. "Regina…" he whispers, and before he can continue, her eyes open and she surges towards him, her mouth insistent, tongue hot as it twists itself past his lips. He's only happy to receive it, and he gives back as good as he gets in a way that has both of them panting hard when they break apart, foreheads resting against the other's.

"I'm sorry," he says, still breathless, as he cups her face and trails his thumb along the high bone of her cheek. "For whatever it is that I've done to upset you."

"You haven't done anything," she responds, her voice tight with emotion.

"Regina," he breathes, upon pulling back and seeing her eyes flooded with tears. "What's hurting you?"

She shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut, the tears slipping down her cheeks, and his heart aches for her. "No one. I've been acting foolishly, and the only one hurting me is myself," she says, her breath hitching. His hands trail down her arms, until they land on her wrists, caressing the skin there. He hasn't been able to forget the angry marks he'd seen there weeks before, and he knows that they've healed by now, (he had made sure of it when he'd first spotted her), but he still lifts them, bringing them to his lips.

_No one_, she'd said, but he doesn't believe her. He thinks of all the rumours he's heard about her mother and the way that she'd went about raising her and he wonders.

* * *

After that, Regina once again attends the dinners, although, it's back to the polite smiles and fake platitudes she'd offered him when they'd first met and even if it strains him, just as it strains her (he can see it in her eyes— her eyes that he had already known to be expressive from the moment he'd met her), he plays along, behaving for her sake. He would never forgive himself if she were hurt once more on account of his own actions.

* * *

The day is hot, the streets stinking with sweat and rotting garbage, as Robin makes his way through the crowds of King's Landing and it's nearly unbearable to be directly under the light of the sun. He's going to the stables to take his horse and travel just outside of Rosby, a necessary trip he'd been thinking of making for a while— business for his father— and he curses himself for leaving it to this hellish day, of all days. Even the hay stinks, the air humid and sticky, he thinks as he steps into the pens, but another step and he hears a voice— not just any voice, but _her _voice and he feels a rush of surprise and excitement. He spots her near the back, brush in hand as she runs it along the horse's mane, the beast nickering in response. She's singing, in a language he recognizes to be High Valyrian, and the back of her dress is soaked with sweat, hair frizzy and curled at the base of her neck just below where it's been pinned up. Despite knowing her to look far from the noble that she is, (it intrigues him, how different she is from the other women), she is beautiful, even now, and he's drawn in by her sweet, pleasant voice.

"What is that?" he asks, when he is only a few steps away from her, and promptly bites his tongue as she turns with a gasp, the stallion behind her letting out a huff of displeasure. She hushes the animal when she realizes that it's only him, laying a comforting hand on it's hide and his grunts calm.

"You frightened him," she says, and looks a little vexed, lips pursed, dark eyes glaring up at him from beneath her thick lashes. Robin shifts uneasily, unsure of how to behave around her now that they've retreated back into a place where they are not to touch one another or speak too freely.

"Forgive me, Milady. The wasn't my intentsion," he responds, a small, sheepish smile crossing his lips and she sighs, dropping her shoulders.

"It's the song of the Second Sun and the birth of dragons," she says, finally, after a moment where they'd done nothing but gaze at one another like a pair of fools, and Robin had been dangerously close to pulling her into his arms and telling her he missed her, so he sighs with a mix of relief and disappointment when her words discourage him from doing so.

"Stunning…" he says with a weighted gaze that has her lips parting, cheeks flushing a shade darker than the heat has made them.

* * *

On the week of their wedding, Robin finds himself on the veranda, gazing out at the bay. It is a hot day today, the sun beating down on the stone, and Robin can already feel the sweat gathering on his brow after only a few minutes of being directly in the sun. The wind whips at him, a reprieve from the heat, blowing at his tunic.

When he looks down, he can see the point where Regina and him had first spoken, beneath him, just outside the gardens. He remembers that day with startling clarity, remembers the fire in her eyes that he had neglected to take caution to, how instead, he'd wanted to bring it out, let it grow, and have it blaze a path into his very soul. He's watching a sailboat coming in from the horizon, slowly but surely, and he thinks of the anticipation the fishermen are sure to feel upon their return home where a hot meal awaits them, a reward for their hard work. He thinks of finally being wed to his Dornish bride, after months of expectancy and excitement, months of longing, and a small smile crosses his lips. Even so, his Lady cannot be compared to a reward, for she is not something to be won, and forgotten about once a new opportunity arises. She is something to be cherished, loved, cared for, and not for the first time does he wonder at what point in time did he fall in love with her?—Fall so deeply, that he cannot even bear to thought of losing her. He knows that Kings Landing will be a more perilous home for her, away from Sunspear where she'd been surrounded by family, but he hopes that with him, she will be willing to make it her own.

* * *

The morning of their wedding, Robin wakes early, the dawn approaching with colours of pink and gold. As his gaze turns to the window facing the east, he thinks of the morning when Regina had been ill and bedridden; the morning when he had woken her to the sunrise. He remembers how weightless she had been, even with the addition of the heavy, feather duvet, remembers how she'd smelt like herbs and sweat, how her glazed eyes had lit up when she'd seen him and he smiles now and wonders if she is doing the same. He doubts she will have the opportunity to have a serene, calm moment such a this. Not today. But he will make sure she has it tomorrow morning. And the morning after that.

The day is filled with a constant buzz of excitement, the servants and caterers completing their last minute arrangements and Robin begins to feel awfully jittery. When the time finally arrives for him to be called to the Sept of Baelor, it is past midday, and he makes to wipe his clammy hands on his embroidered trousers as discreetly as possible. The voices of the choir filter through the grand hall, angelic tones calming. Once he makes it to the steps before the alter, his eyes search the room, taking in the faces of all the nobles present, the lit candles lining the walls, the rich, warm colours of the painted stone that surround them. He catches the gaze of his bride's mother, her cold eyes cutting into him and he sets his jaw before offering her a nod. He can feel her distrust, her spite, and though it bothers him, he wouldn't sacrifice what he has with Regina just because this woman makes him uneasy. Not that his father would ever allow him to break this alliance anyway, nor would the Queen.

It is then that he hears the grand doors open, bright daylight seeping into the hall, making him squint when he redirects his gaze and spots one lone figure standing beneath the arches. Covered with layers upon layers of white silk with gold trim, she stands there a moment before stepping forward, the movement causing a slight billowing of the cloth that is covering her head and he catches just a glimpse of her downturned face. Her father steps into line beside her and offers his daughter a placating smile. She returns it, but even with the rest of her features hidden from his curious eyes, he cannot help but feel as though it is forced.

Once she is finally before him, Robin almost forgets about the bridal cloak hooked on his arm, traditions be damned, and reaches for her hand. He catches her amused smile beneath her hood and she squeezes his hand once before pulling from his grasp. She reaches up then, revealing herself to him when she lowers her hood, and he barely notices the hand maiden that quietly removes the white robe from her shoulders as he takes her in. She is beautiful, radiant, and he can barely tear his gaze away from her, seemingly serene, face to focus on the fact that they are right in the middle of a ceremony.

The High Septon clears his throat quietly, his tone firm as he reminds him of his duties. "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection." Though he is grateful for the old man's gentle tone, Robin's eyes widen slightly, feeling his chest flush with embarrassment as he promptly steps behind her and lays the heavy velvet robe around her shoulders. Once adorned with the Lannister colours, he gently brushes his fingers against the back of her neck and feels her shiver, before untucking the dark hair that he'd trapped beneath it.

"My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the eyes of Gods and men, to witness the union of man and wife," the Septon begins, and Robin still finds it difficult to keep his attention on the greying man.

She is smiling softly at him, but there is a glint of _something_ in her eyes, and he wonders if she is just as nervous as he is. Only when their hands are lifted and wrapped together with the sacred cloth does Robin realized her palm, pressing against the back of his hand, is just as damp as his.

"Let it be known that Regina of House Martell and Robin of House Lannister are of one heart, one flesh, one soul, now and forever." And his heart soars.

Despite their first meeting that had initial begun with her demure behaviour, he had seen the fire burning inside of her. The fire that mingled with his own. And as her lips press into his, upon being declared Husband and Wife, his heart burns as if it has been kissed by it.

If there are those that do not applaud, neither of them notice.

* * *

At the feast, proceeding their wedding, Regina reaches across beneath the table and takes his hand. He offers her a gentle squeeze and smiles, his heart warming. Despite the presence of her mother, he knows that this isn't like her polite, false smiles. She's not putting on a show for anyone nor doing this for anyone but him and her and he know it's real. This is just theirs.

* * *

When she is being carried away on the litera filled with fresh flowers, the transparent canopy falling around her, she is smiling and laughing, holding her long hair from falling in her face. Robin's cheeks ache from how hard he is grinning. Though, when their eyes meet once more, he spots the trepidation there, and he realizes then exactly where she is being taken; that the next time he will see her, she will be in _his_ bed, presumably dressed in considerably less layers than her gown that she has worn for their wedding, and his excitement dims a bit because as much as he craves her, he detests himself for not thinking of her concerns sooner. He concludes then that as tempting as she has always been to him, she is still just a girl, her maidenhood untouched. He decides to remain at the soirée for a while longer.

* * *

He knocks on the door to his bedchambers before he enters, and he would think it ridiculous if he wasn't aware of the circumstances. As soon as he steps in, he is surprised to find the entire room illuminated by candles, giving off a warm, caramelized scent, scattered around on various hard surfaces in the chamber, and transforming the atmosphere into something he would find relaxing if he couldn't see the anxiety written all over his lovely bride's expression.

He had been right in assuming she'd be wearing less when he finally arrived, much less, in fact, for he can easily see the curve of her breast and the shadow of a nipple through the translucent slip she is wearing as she sits in the middle of his bed. Dear gods, she is absolutely bewitching.

"What took you so long?" she practically huffs, breaking him from his daze, and his brows fly up into his hairline. Though surprised, he can't help but be amused that despite her unease, she hasn't lost that spark that had drawn him to her in the first place.

"I thought I'd give you some time," he responds, with a smile, that he hopes is comforting, on his lips.

"Oh," she breathes in response and her eyes drift from his, seemingly in thought, giving him time to let his own roam over every bit of her he can see, from her thick flowing hair, full lips, slim neck and the breasts he had always desired to see, touch, kiss…

A blur of movement, her arm lifting, hand out and palm facing up, distracts his wandering gaze, as she reaches for him, and he steps towards her, closing the door behind him, latching it, before he makes his way to the foot of the bed. He removes his embroidered tunic, letting it fall carelessly to the floor before untying the laces on his trousers, and he crawls up the expanse of the bed to her, now only in his small clothes. He slows when he nears her, and she lays back, looking up at him as he hovers over her, his heart beating out of his chest.

He doesn't know what to say, so he stares, like a fool, completely enraptured by the sight of her beneath him. He lifts his hand to her face, caressing the soft skin he finds there and watches as she turns toward his touch, eyelids flickering.

"I'm frightened," she admits after several moments of silence, those dark eyes wide. Her breath trembles as it leaves her lips and his heart clenches within his ribs.

"Don't be," he whispers, his fingers ghosting down her cheek and into her hair. "I will do whatever it is you wish… Only what you wish," he reiterates, blue eyes boring into hers. He doesn't know when he made that decision, it certainly hadn't been one he had made consciously but he knows he won't break it.

Her brows furrow, lips parting before she starts hesitantly. "And if I don't wish…" she trails off, looking unsure, her voice timid in a way he's never heard it before.

"Then we won't."

The way she looks at him, a mixture of relief and disbelief on her features, makes him smile lightly, and he leans down, brushing his nose against her own, across her cheek, breathing her in. She smells like cinnamon and some other concoction of perfumed oils that he's come to associate only with her.

"We… wont?" she questions, voice wavering. "But…"

"Not tonight," he punctuates with a brief kiss to her lips. "Although, I do wish to give you _one_ thing… perhaps more if you'll accept it," he says with a wicked grin of his own.

"What's that?" she asks, her lips quirking in response.

He presses his lips to hers in response, gentle, slow, prying her lips apart to taste her mouth. He will not push her, he swears it. Because as much as he has dreamed about making love to her, her confidence and contentment means so much more to him.

* * *

A/N: I know, I'm terrible and I did promise sexy times but there will be plenty of that in the next chapter, I promise. I just felt it more appropriate ending this chapter here. The next chapter will definitely not take so long to be posted. Reviews are appreciated!


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